"It don't seem right, some'ow," muttered Bindle, as he stood before the oval mirror of what a misguided Fulham tradesman had catalogued as "an elegant duchesse dressing-table in walnut substitute." "A concertina-'at don't seem jest right for a weddin'!"

Bindle readjusted the crush-hat that had come to him as part of the properties belonging to the Oxford Adventure. He tried it on the back of his head, over his eyes and at the Sir David Beatty Angle.

"Oh, get out of the way, do! We shall be late." Mrs. Bindle, in petticoat and camisole, pushed Bindle aside and took her place in front of the mirror. "Anybody would think you was a woman, standing looking at yourself in front of the glass. What'll Mr. Hearty say if we're late?"

"You need never be afraid of what 'Earty'll say," remarked Bindle philosophically, "because 'e'll never say anythink wot can't be printed in a parish magazine."

Mrs. Bindle sniffed and continued patting her hair with the palm of her hand. Bindle still stood regarding his crush-hat regretfully.

"You can't wear a hat like that at a wedding," snapped Mrs. Bindle; "that's for a dress-suit."

Bindle heaved a sigh.

"I'd a liked to 'ave worn a top 'at at Millikins' weddin'," he remarked with genuine regret; "but as you'd say, Mrs. B.," he remarked, regaining his good-humour, "Gawd 'as ordained otherwise, so it's a 'ard 'at for J.B. to-day."

"Remember you're going to chapel, Bindle," remarked Mrs. Bindle, "and it's a sin to enter the House of God with blasphemy upon your lips."

"Is it really?" was Bindle's only comment, as he produced the hard hat and began to brush it with the sleeve of his coat. This done he took up a position behind Mrs. Bindle, bent his knees and proceeded to fix it on his head, appropriating to his own use such portion of the mirror as could be seen beneath Mrs. Bindle's left arm.

"Oh, get away, do!" Mrs. Bindle turned on him angrily; but Bindle had achieved his object, and had adjusted his hat at what he felt was the correct angle for weddings. He next turned his attention to a large white rose, which he proceeded to force into his buttonhole. This time he took up a position on Mrs. Bindle's right and, going through the same process, managed to get the complete effect of the buttonhole plus the hat. He next proceeded to draw on a pair of canary-coloured wash-leather gloves. This done he picked up a light cane, heavily adorned with yellow metal and, Mrs. Bindle having temporarily left the mirror, he placed himself before it.

"Personally myself," he remarked, "I don't see that Charlie'll 'ave a sportin' chance to-day. Lord! I pays for dressin'," he remarked, popping quickly aside as Mrs. Bindle bore down upon him. "You ought to be a proud woman to-day, Mrs. B.," he continued. "There's many a fair 'eart wot'll flutter as I walks up the aisle." Mrs. Bindle's head, however, was enveloped in the folds of her skirt, which she was endeavouring to assume without rumpling her hair.

"Ah! Mrs. B.," Bindle said reprovingly, "late again, late again!" He proceeded to bite off the end of a cigar which he lit.

"Don't smoke that cigar," snapped Mrs. Bindle.

"Not smoke a cigar at a weddin'!" exclaimed Bindle incredulously. "Then if you can't smoke a cigar at a weddin', when the 'ell can you smoke one."

"Don't you use those words at me," retorted Mrs. Bindle. "If you smoke you'll smell of smoke in the chapel."

"The only smell I ever smelt in that chapel is its own smell, and that ain't a pleasant one. Any'ow, I'll put it out before I gets to the door. I'm jest goin' to 'op round to see Millikins."

"You'll do nothing of the kind," cried Mrs. Bindle with decision. "You mustn't see a bride before she appears at the chapel."

Bindle stopped dead on his way to the door and, turning round, exclaimed, "Mustn't wot?"

"You mustn't see a bride before she appears at the chapel or church. It isn't proper."

"Well, I'm blowed!" cried Bindle. "You mean to tell me that Charlie Dixon ain't goin' to nip round and 'ave a look at 'er this mornin'?"

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Bindle.

"But why?" persisted Bindle.

"Because it's not proper; it's not the right thing to do," replied Mrs. Bindle, as she struggled into her bodice.

"Now ain't that funny," said Bindle. "I suppose it all come about because they was afraid the chap might sort o' funk it and do a bunk, not likin' the looks o' the gal. Any'ow that ain't likely to 'appen with Millikins. The cove wot gets 'er, 'as got a winner."

"Thought you didn't believe in marriage," said Mrs. Bindle acidly.

"I don't, Mrs. B.," replied Bindle. "Leastways the marriages wot are made in the place where they don't play billiards; but this little one was made in the Putney Cinema Pavilion. I made it myself, and when J.B. takes a thing in 'and, it's goin' to be top 'ole. Then," he proceeded after a pause, "Millikins 'as got me to look after 'er. If 'er man didn't make 'er 'appy, I'd skin 'im; yes, and rub salt in afterwards."

There was a grimness in Bindle's voice that caused Mrs. Bindle to pause in the process of pinning a brooch in her bodice.

"Yes, Mrs. B.," continued Bindle, "that little gal means an 'ell of a lot to me, I——"

Mrs. Bindle looked round, a little startled at a huskiness in Bindle's voice. She was just in time to see him disappear through the bedroom-door. When she returned to the looking-glass, the face that was reflected back to her was that of a woman in whose eyes there was something of disappointment and cheated longing.

Mrs. Bindle proceeded with her toilet. Everything seemed to go wrong, and each article she required appeared to have hidden itself away. Finally she assumed her bonnet, a study in two tints of green, constructed according to the inevitable plan upon which all her bonnets were built, narrow of gauge with a lofty superstructure. She gave a final glance at herself in the glass, and sighed her satisfaction at the sight of the maroon-coloured dress with the bright green bonnet.

When Mrs. Bindle emerged into Fenton Street, working on her white kid gloves with feverish movement, she found Bindle engaged in chatting with a group of neighbours.

"'Ere comes my little beetroot," remarked Bindle; at which Mrs. Rogers went off into a shriek of laughter and told him to "Go hon, do!"

Mrs. Bindle acknowledged the salutations of her neighbours with a frigid inclination of her head. She strongly objected to Bindle's "holding any truck" with the occupants of other houses in Fenton Street.

"Well, well, s'long, all of you!" said Bindle. "It ain't my weddin', that's one thing."

There were cheery responses to Bindle's remarks, and sotto voce references to Mrs. Bindle as "a stuck-up cat."

"Mind you throw that cigar away before we get to the chapel," said Mrs. Bindle, still working at her gloves.

"Right-o!" said Bindle, as they turned into the New King's Road. He waved the hand containing the cigar in salutation to the driver of a passing motor-bus with whom he was acquainted.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Mrs. Bindle snappishly.

"Wouldn't do wot?" enquired Bindle innocently.

"Recognising common people when you're with me," was the response.

"But that was 'Arry Sales," said Bindle, puzzled at Mrs. Bindle's attitude. "'E ain't common, 'e drives a motor-bus."

"What will people think?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

"Oh! they're used to 'Arry drivin' a bus," replied Bindle. "They might think it funny if he was to drive an 'earse."

"You know what I mean," said Mrs. Bindle. "Why can't you remember that you're goin' to a wedding."

"Nobody wouldn't know it from your looks, Mrs. B.," commented Bindle. "You look about as 'appy as 'Earty does when 'e 'ears there's goin' to be an air-raid."

"Oh, don't talk to me!" snapped Mrs. Bindle; and they continued on their way in silence. When about a hundred yards from the Alton Road Chapel, Mrs. Bindle demanded of Bindle that he throw away his cigar, which he did with great reluctance.

There was a small collection of women and children outside the chapel doors.

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Bindle suddenly.

"Where?" enquired Bindle, looking first to the right and left, then on the ground and finally up at the sky.

"I knew we should be late," said Mrs. Bindle. "There's the carriage."

At that moment a two-horse carriage bearing Mr. Hearty and Millie passed by, and drew up at the entrance to the chapel. Mr. Hearty's white kid-gloved hand appeared out of the window, fumbling with the handle of the carriage. A moment later his silk hat, adorned with a deep black band, appeared; still the carriage-door refused to open. Suddenly as if out of sheer mischief it gave way, and Mr. Hearty lurched forward, his hat fell off and rolled under the carriage. A stray dog, that had been watching the proceedings, dashed for the hat, just at the moment that Mr. Hearty hurriedly stepped out to retrieve his headgear. Mr. Hearty's foot came down upon the dog's paw. The animal gave a heart-rending howl, Mr. Hearty jumped, the people laughed, and the dog continued to howl, holding up its wounded paw.

Mr. Hearty, however, was intent upon the recapture of his hat. With his silver-mounted umbrella, he started poking beneath the carriage to try and coax it towards him. An elderly gentleman, seeing the mishap, had approached from the other side of the carriage and, with his stick, was endeavouring to achieve the same object. The result was that, as soon as one drew the hat towards him, the other immediately snatched it away again.

"It's like a game of 'ockey," said Bindle who had come up at this moment. "Go it, 'Earty, you got it!"

Mrs. Bindle tore at Bindle's arm, just as the benevolent gentleman succeeded in securing Mr. Hearty's hat. Mr. Hearty dashed round to the other side of the carriage, snatched his damaged headgear from the hands of the stranger, and stood brushing it upon the sleeve of his coat.

"Excuse me, sir!" said the stranger.

"But it's my hat," said Mr. Hearty, endeavouring to restore something of its lost glossiness.

Mr. Hearty had apparently forgotten all about the bride, and it was Bindle who helped Millie from the carriage, and led her into the chapel. Mrs. Bindle reminded Mr. Hearty of his duty. Putting his hat on his head, he entered the chapel door. It was Mrs. Bindle also who reminded him of his mistake.

"It's a good omen, Uncle Joe," whispered Millie as she clung to Bindle's arm.

"Wot's a good omen, Millikins?" enquired Bindle.

"That you should take me in instead of father," she whispered just as Mr. Hearty bustled up and relieved Bindle.

There was a craning of necks and a hum of voices as Mr. Hearty, intensely nervous, led his daughter up to the altar. Bindle followed, carrying Mr. Hearty's hat and umbrella.

"My! don't 'is Nibs look smart," Bindle muttered to himself, as he caught sight of Charlie Dixon standing at the further end of the chapel.

The Rev. Mr. Sopley had come up from Eastbourne specially for the occasion, Millie refusing to be married by Mr. MacFie. The ceremony dragged its mournful course to the point where Millie and Charlie Dixon had become man and wife. Mr. Sopley then plunged into a lugubrious address full of dreary foreboding. He spoke of orphans, widowhood, plague and famine, the uncertainty of human life and the persistent quality of sin.

"'E ain't much at marrying," whispered Bindle to Mr. Hearty; "but 'e ought to be worth a rare lot for funerals." Mr. Hearty turned and gazed at Bindle uncomprehendingly.

It was Bindle who snatched the first kiss from the bride, and it was he who, in the vestry, lightened the depressing atmosphere by his cheerfulness. Mrs. Hearty in mauve and violet dabbed her eyes and beat her breast with rigid impartiality. Mr. Hearty strove to brush his hat into respectability.

Millie, clinging to her soldier-husband, stood with downcast eyes. Bindle looked at her with interest, as she stood a meek and charming figure in a coat and skirt of puritan grey, with a toque of the same shade.

Mr. Sopley shook hands mechanically with everybody, casting his eyes up to heaven as if mournfully presaging the worst.

"About the gloomiest ole cove I ever come across," whispered Bindle to Mrs. Hearty, whereat she collapsed upon a seat and heaved with silent laughter.

It was Bindle who broke up the proceedings.

"Now then, Charlie, 'op it, I'm 'ungry!" he said; and Charlie Dixon, who had seemed paralysed, moved towards the vestry door.

It was Bindle who held on Mr. Hearty's hat when he entered his carriage, and it was Bindle who heaved and pushed Mrs. Hearty until she was able to take her place beside her lawful spouse.

It was Bindle who went back and captured the vague and indeterminate Mr. Sopley, and brought him in the last carriage, that he might participate in the wedding-breakfast.

"Come along, sir," he said to the pastor. "Never mind about 'eaven, let's come and cut ole 'Earty's pineapple, that'll make 'im ratty."

During the journey Bindle went on to explain that Mr. Hearty never expected a guest to have the temerity to cut a pineapple when placed upon his hospitable board.

"Is that so?" remarked Mr. Sopley, not in the least understanding what Bindle was saying.

"It is," said Bindle solemnly; "you see, they goes back into stock."

"Ah-h-h-h!" remarked Mr. Sopley, gazing at the roof of the carriage.

"Clever ole bird this," muttered Bindle. "About as brainy as a cock-sparrow wot's 'ad the wind knocked out of 'im."

When Bindle entered the Heartys' dining-room he found the atmosphere one of unrelieved gloom. Mrs. Hearty was crying, Mr. Hearty looked nervously solemn, Mrs. Bindle was uncompromisingly severe, and the other guests all seemed intensely self-conscious. The men gazed about them for some place to put their hats and umbrellas, the women wondered what they should do with their hands. At the further end of the room stood Millie and Charlie Dixon, Millie's hand still tucked through her husband's arm. Never was there such joylessness as in Mr. Hearty's dining-room that morning.

"'Ullo, 'ullo!" cried Bindle as he entered with Mr. Sopley. "Ain't this a jolly little crowd!"

Millie brightened-up instantaneously, Charlie Dixon looked relieved. Mr. Hearty dashed forward to welcome Mr. Sopley, tripped over Bindle's cane, which he was holding awkwardly, and landed literally on Mr. Sopley's bosom.

Mr. Sopley stepped back and struck his head against the edge of the door.

"Look at 'earty tryin' to kiss ole Woe-and-Whiskers," remarked Bindle audibly. Millie giggled, Charlie Dixon smiled, Mrs. Bindle glared, and the rest of the guests looked either disapprovingly at Bindle, or sympathetically at Mr. Hearty and Mr. Sopley. Mrs. Hearty collapsed into a chair and began to undulate with mirth.

"Couldn't we 'ave an 'ymn?" suggested Bindle.

Mr. Hearty looked round from abjectly apologising to Mr. Sopley. He hesitated a moment and glanced towards the harmonium.

"Uncle Joe is only joking, father," said Millie.

Mr. Hearty looked at Bindle reproachfully.

"Now then, let's set down," said Bindle.

After much effort and a considerable expenditure of physical force, he managed to get the guests seated at the table.

At a sign from Mr. Hearty, Mr. Sopley rose to say grace.

Every one but Bindle was watching for the movement, and a sudden silence fell on the assembly from which Bindle's remark stood out with clear-cut emphasis.

"Ole 'Earty playing 'ockey with 'is top 'at under——" Then Bindle stopped, looking about him with a grin.

Gravely and ponderously Mr. Sopley besought the Lord to make the assembly grateful for what they were about to receive, and amidst a chorus of "amens" the guests resumed their seats.

The wedding party was a small one. For once Mr. Hearty had found that patriotism was not at issue with economy. The guests consisted of the bridegroom's mother, a gentle, sweet-faced woman with white hair and a sunny smile, her brother-in-law, Mr. John Dixon, a red-faced, hurly-burly type of man, a genial, loud-voiced John Bull, hearty of manner and heavy of hand, and half a dozen friends and relatives of the Heartys.

At the head of the table sat Millie and Charlie Dixon, at the foot was Mr. Sopley. The other guests were distributed without thought or consideration as to precedence. Bindle found himself between Mrs. Dixon and Mrs. Hearty. Mrs. Bindle was opposite, where she had planted herself to keep watch. Mr. Hearty sat next to Mrs. Dixon, facing Mr. Dixon, whose uncompromising stare Mr. Hearty found it difficult to meet with composure.

Alice, the maid-servant, reinforced by her sister Bertha, heavy of face and flat of foot, attended to the wants of the guests.

The meal began in constrained silence. The first episode resulted from Alice's whispered enquiry if Mr. Dixon would have lime-juice or lemonade.

"Beer!" cried Mr. Dixon in a loud voice.

Alice looked across at Mr. Hearty, who, being quite unequal to the situation, looked at Alice, and then directed his gaze towards Mr. Sopley.

"I beg pardon, sir?" said Alice.

"Beer!" roared Mr. Dixon.

Everybody began to feel uncomfortable except Bindle, who was watching the little comedy with keen enjoyment.

"We—we——" began Mr. Hearty—"we don't drink beer, Mr. Dixon."

"Don't drink beer?" cried Mr. Dixon in the tone of a man who has just heard that another doesn't wear socks. "Don't drink beer?"

Mr. Hearty shook his head miserably, as if fully conscious of his shortcomings.

"Extraordinary!" said Mr. Dixon, "most extraordinary!"

"Well, I'll have a whisky-and-soda," he conceded magnanimously.

Mr. Hearty rolled his eyes and cast a languishing glance in the direction of Mrs. Bindle.

"We are temperance," said Mr. Hearty.

"What!" roared Mr. Dixon incredulously. "Temperance! temperance at a wedding!"

"Always," said Mr. Hearty.

"Hmmmm!" snorted Mr. Dixon. He glared down the length of the table as if the guests comprised a new species.

Alice repeated her question about the lemonade and lime-juice.

"I should be sick if I drank it," said Mr. Dixon crossly. "I'll have a cup of tea."

"'E's like me, mum," said Bindle to Mrs. Dixon who was greatly distressed at the occurrence, "'e likes 'is glass of beer and ain't none the worse for it."

Mrs. Dixon smiled understandingly.

The meal continued, gloomily silent, or with whispered conversations, as if the guests were afraid of hearing their own voices.

Bindle turned to Mrs. Hearty. "Look 'ere, Martha!" he cried. "We ain't a very cheer-o crowd, are we? Ain't you got none of them naughty stories o' yours to tell jest to make us laugh."

Mrs. Hearty was in the act of conveying a piece of chicken to her mouth. The chicken and fork dropped back to the plate with a jangle, and she leaned back in her chair, heaving and wheezing with laughter.

"Look 'ere, sir!" said Bindle, addressing Mr. Sopley, who temporarily withdrew his eyes from the ceiling. "I 'ad a little argument with a cove the other day, as to where this 'ere was to be found. I said it's from the Bible, 'e says it's from The Pink 'Un."

Bindle looked round to assure himself that he had attracted the attention of the whole table.

"Now this is it. 'The Lord said unto Moses come forth, and 'e come fifth an' lorst the cup.'"

Mrs. Dixon smiled, Millie and Charlie Dixon laughed; but Mr. Dixon threw himself back in his chair and roared. Mr. Hearty looked apprehensively at Mr. Sopley, who regarded Bindle with uncomprehending eyes.

"You've lost your money, Mr. Bindle, you've lost your money; it's The Pink 'Un, I'll bet my life on it," choked Mr. Dixon. "Best thing I've heard for years, 'pon my soul it is!" he cried.

"Mr. Bindle, I'm afraid you are a very naughty man," said Mrs. Dixon gently.

"Me, mum?" enquired Bindle with assumed innocence. "Me naughty? That's jest where you're wrong, mum. When I die, it ain't the things I done wot I shall be sorry for; but the things wot I ain't done, and as for 'Earty, 'e'll be as sorry for 'imself as Ginger was when 'e got a little dose o' twins."

"Bindle, remember there are ladies present!" cried the outraged Mrs. Bindle from the other side of the table.

"It's all right, Mrs. B.," said Bindle reassuringly. "These was gentlemen twins."

The meal progressed solemn and joyless. Few remarks were made, but much food and drink was consumed. Bindle made a point of cutting both the pineapples that adorned the table, delighting in the anguish he saw on Mr. Hearty's face.

"If they only 'ad a drink," groaned Bindle, "it would sort o' wake 'em up; but wot can you do on lemonade and glass-ginger. Can't even 'ave stone-ginger, because they're sort of afraid it might make 'em tight."

When everyone had eaten to repletion, Mr. Hearty cast a glance round and then, with the butt-end of a knife, rapped loudly on the table. There was a sudden hush. Mr. Hearty looked intently at Mr. Sopley, who was far away engaged in a contemplation of heaven, via the ceiling. Bindle began to clap, which brought Mr. Sopley back to earth.

Seeing what was required of him, he rose with ponderous solemnity and, in his best "grief-and-woe" manner, proceeded to propose the health of the bride in a sepulchral voice, reminiscent of a damp Church of England service in the country.

"Dear friends." He raised a pair of anguished eyes to the green and yellow paper festoons that trailed from the electrolier above the dining-table to various picture nails in the walls. He paused, his lips moving slowly and impressively, then aloud he continued:

"Dear friends, of all the ceremonies that attend our brief stay in this vale of tears, marriage is infinitely the most awful—("'Ear, 'ear!" from Bindle, and murmurs of "Hush!"). It is a contract entered into—er—er—in the sight of heaven; but with—er—er—the Almighty's blessing it may be a linking of hands of two of—er—God's creatures as they pass down the—er—er—valley of the shadow of death to eternal and lasting salvation." Mr. Sopley paused.

"'Ere, I say, sir," broke in Bindle. "Cheer up, this ain't a funeral."

There were murmurs of "Husssssssssh!" Mrs. Hearty began to cry quietly. Mr. Hearty appeared portentously solemn, Mrs. Bindle looked almost cheerful.

"We see two young people," resumed Mr. Sopley, having apparently renewed his store of ideas from a further contemplation of the ceiling, "on the threshold of life, with all its disappointments and temptations, all its sin and misery, all its fears and misgivings. We know that—we know—we have evidence of——" Mr. Sopley lost the thread of his discourse, and once more returned to his contemplation of Mr. Hearty's ceiling. Bindle beat his fist on the table; but was silenced by a "Husssssssh" from several of the guests.

"Marriages," continued Mr. Sopley, "marriages are made in heaven——"

"I knew you was goin' to say that, sir," broke in Bindle cheerfully. "'Ere, stop it!" he yelled, stooping down to rub his shin. "Who's a-kickin' me under the table?" he fixed a suspicious eye upon a winter-worn spinster in a vieux rose satin blouse sitting opposite.

"Marriage is a thing of terrible solemnity," resumed Mr. Sopley, "not to be entered upon lightly, or with earthly thoughts. It is symbolical of many things, sometimes terrible things—("'Ere, 'ere!" interposed Bindle)—but throughout all its vicissitudes, in spite of all earthly woes, desolation, and despair, it should be remembered that there is One above to Whom all prayers should be directed, and in Whom all hope should be reposed.

"In the course of the long life that the Lord has granted me, I have joined together in holy wedlock many young couples—("Shame!" from Bindle, and a laugh from Mr. Dixon),—and I hope our young friends here will find in it that meed of happiness which we all wish them."

In spite of the entire lack of conviction with which Mr. Sopley wished the bridal pair happiness, he resumed his seat amidst murmurs of approval. His words were too solemn to be followed by applause from anyone save Bindle, who tapped the table loudly with the butt-end of his knife. Everyone looked towards Charlie Dixon, who in turn looked appealingly at Bindle.

Interpreting the glance to mean that Bindle contemplated replying, Mrs. Bindle kicked him beneath the table.

"'Ere, who's kicking me on the shins again?" he cried as he rose. Mrs. Bindle frowned at him. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he remarked. "Now, Charlie, you see what's goin' to 'appen to you now you're married. Been kickin' my shins all the mornin', she 'as, me with 'various' veins in my legs too."

Bindle looked at Millie; it was obvious that she was on the point of tears. Charlie Dixon was gazing down at her solicitously. Mr. Dixon was clearly annoyed. At the conclusion of Mr. Sopley's address he had cleared his throat impressively, as if prepared to enter the lists. Mrs. Dixon gazed anxiously at her son. Mr. Hearty looked at Mrs. Bindle. Mrs. Bindle's eyes were fixed on Bindle. Bindle rose deliberately.

"If ever I wants to get married again," began Bindle, looking at Mr. Sopley, "I'll come to you, sir, to tie me up. It'll sort o' prepare me for the worst; but I got to wait till Mrs. B. 'ops it with the lodger; not 'ole Guppy," he added, "'e's gone."

Mr. Dixon laughed loudly; into Mrs. Bindle's cheeks there stole a flush of anger.

"Well!" continued Bindle, "I promised Charlie that 'e shouldn't 'ave no speeches to make, an' so I'm on my 'ind legs a-givin' thanks for all them cheerful things wot we jest 'eard about. I ain't altogether a believer in 'ow to be 'appy though married; but this 'ere gentleman—(Bindle indicated Mr. Sopley by a jerk of his thumb)—well, 'e can give me points. No one didn't ought to 'ave such ideas wot ain't done time for bigamy. I can see now why there ain't no givin' an' takin' in marriage up there;" and Bindle raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I got a new respect for 'eaven, I 'ave.

"I don't rightly understand wot 'e means by 'a vale o' tears,' or 'walkin' 'and in 'and along the valley o' the shadow.' P'raps they're places 'e's been to abroad. I seen a good deal o' wanderin' 'and in 'and along the river between Putney an' 'Ammersmith, I'm a special, you know. I 'ad to ask the sergeant to change my dooty. Used to make me 'ot all over, it did.

"There's one thing where you're wrong, sir." Bindle turned to Mr. Sopley, who reluctantly brought his eyes down from the ceiling to gaze vacantly at Bindle. "You said this 'ere marriage was made in 'eaven. Well, it wasn't; it was made in Fulham."

Mrs. Dixon smiled. Mr. Dixon guffawed. Mr. Hearty looked anxiously from Mrs. Bindle to Mr. Sopley.

"I made it myself, so I ought to know," proceeded Bindle. "I seen a good deal o' them two kids." He looked affectionately at Millie. "An' if they ain't goin' to be 'appy in Fulham instead o' wanderin' about vales and valleys a-snivellin', you got one up against Joe Bindle.

"I remember once 'earin' a parson say that when we died and went to the sort of Ole Bailey in the sky, we should be asked if we'd ever done anybody a good turn. If we 'ad, then we'd got a sportin' chance. When I'm dead I can see myself a-knockin' at them golden gates of 'eaven, sort o' registered letter knock wot means an answer's wanted. When they ask me if I ever done anyone a good turn, I shall say I got Millikins an' Charlie Dixon tied up.

"'Right-o, ole sport!' they'll say, ''op in.'

"An' I shall nip in quick before they can bang the gates to, like they do on the tube. Then I shall see ole 'Earty, all wings an' whiskers, a-playin' rag-time on an 'arp."

Again Mr. Dixon's hearty laugh rang out. "Splendid!" he cried. "Splendid!"

"I seen a good deal o' marriage one way an' another. Me an' Mrs. B. 'ave been tied up a matter o' nineteen years, an' look at 'er. Don't she look 'appy?"

Everybody turned to regard Mrs. Bindle.

"Then," continued Bindle, "there's 'Earty. Look at 'im. One of the jolliest coves I know."

Mechanically all eyes were directed towards Mr. Hearty.

"It all depends 'ow you goes about marriage. There's one thing you got to remember before you gets married: bottles is returnable, likewise new-laid eggs wot ain't new laid; but you can't return your missus, not even if you pays the carriage. It's a lifer, is marriage.

"I ain't goin' to make a long speech, because the pubs close at 'alf-past two, an' you'll all want to wash the taste o' this 'ere lemonade out o' your mouths."

Bindle paused and looked at the now happy faces of Millie and Charlie Dixon. For a moment he gazed at them, then with suddenness he resumed his seat, conscious that his voice had failed him and that he was blinking and swallowing with unnecessary vigour. The silence was broken only by the loud thumping on the table of Mr. Dixon.

"Bravo!" he cried. "Bravo! one of the best speeches I've ever heard. Excellent! Splendid!"

Everybody looked at everybody else, as if wondering what would happen next, and obviously deploring Mr. Dixon's misguided enthusiasm.

Alice solved the problem by entering and whispering to Millie that the taxi was at the door. This was a signal for a general movement, a pushing back of chairs and shuffling of feet as the guests rose.

Charlie Dixon walked across to Bindle.

"Get us off quickly, Uncle Joe, will you," he whispered. "Millie doesn't think she can stand much more."

"Right-o, Charlie!" replied Bindle. "Leave it to me."

"Now then, 'urry up, 'urry up!" he called out. "You'll lose that train, come along. Once aboard the motor and the gal is mine! Now, Charlie, where's your cap? I'll see about the luggage."

Almost before anyone knew what was happening, they were gazing at the tail-end of a taxi-cab being driven rapidly eastward. When it had disappeared over the bridge, Bindle turned away and found himself blinking into the moist eyes of Mrs. Dixon. He coughed violently, then, as she smiled through her tears, he remarked:

"Ain't I an ole fool, mum?" he said.

"Mr. Bindle," she said in a voice that was none too well under control, "I think you have been their fairy-godmother."

"Well I am a bit of an ole woman at times," remarked Bindle, swallowing elaborately. "Now I must run after my little bit of 'eaven, or else she'll be off with Ole Woe-and-Whiskers. It's wonderful 'ow misery seems to attract some women."

He took two steps towards the door, then turning to Mrs. Dixon said:

"Don't you worry, mum, 'e'll come back all right. Gawd ain't a-goin' to spoil the 'appiness of them two young kids."

Mrs. Dixon's tears were now raining fast down her cheeks.

"Mr. Bindle," she said, "you must be a very good man."

Bindle stared at her for a moment in astonishment, and then turned and walked through the Heartys' private door.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "Fancy 'er a-sayin' that. I wonder wot ole 'Earty 'ud think. Well, I'm blowed! 'Ere, come along, sir!" he cried to Mr. Dixon. "It's a quarter past two, we jest got a quarter of an hour;" and the two men passed down the High Street in the direction of Putney Bridge.

THE END